Adamant
by White Phantom
Summary: Cullen muses over recent happenings.


A/N: Just a quick drabble from Cullen Rutherford's pov.

...-...

 **C** ullen sank into his seat beside the makeshift war table that had been set up in the camp outside of Adamant. The battle had been long, and grueling, and truly terrible, but it had been won.

In no small part thanks to the trebuchets.

Josephine had teased him that he was like a small boy with a new toy when it came to those weapons of war, but how could she not see how useful they were. They'd been pivotal in the draw at Haven, and they'd proven themselves useful again here at Adamant.

It was a pity they couldn't be used at Halamshiral.

Alas, even he had to concede that trebuchets couldn't fix all problems.

Though…the idea of flinging massive stone blocks at an assassin did have a certain comical tone to it. No doubt it was something Leliana would chastise him for even considering if he brought it up.

Cassandra and the inquisitor might get a laugh out of it, though. They'd both appreciated his thoughts on bombarding the mountains until they were flat in the Frostback Basin, after all.

The memory brought a smile to his face that tugged on his scar.

It was short-lived, however.

No number of trebuchets or ridiculous uses for them could stave off the memories of the recent battle. Worse, the images from these last few hours needled at old wounds only barely scabbed over, even after all these years. It was a miracle he had managed to keep his head through it all. When the demons had started throwing people off the battlements, he'd nearly thrown up.

Loss of life aside, the mere sight of those creatures brought Kinloch Hold and all the devastation that had happened there come boiling back to the surface.

Yells for help on the battlefield melded with the yells for mercy of men long dead. The stench of blood mixed with stale air and flesh left out to rot for days.

Oddly enough, the worst of it had passed as the battle drew on. After that initial blur of reality, Cullen had somehow managed to grasp onto the present and push everything else aside. He'd focused on his breathing, on shouting commands. He'd separated himself from what was happening, looked at it as though it were a chess game. Move that group to counter those monsters, retreat here and come up through the overtaken halls to surprise an enemy there.

Disconnected, he'd been able to be what the Inquisition needed: a commander who never faltered.

Now, with the dust settled, the inquisitor safely returned from the Fade, and his soldiers falling to sleep on their cots, he felt sick. The cost of assaulting the fortress had been high, and part of him despised that he could have ever looked at the people under him as pawns and pieces.

Each and every one of the lives lost was a life too much, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. Even if he could go back, there wasn't anything he could do differently.

Not here at Adamant.

Despite the coldness of it, what he had done had been the most efficient, sparing the most lives that could be spared.

That didn't particularly assuage his guilt, though.

There was always that little voice in the back of his head whispering that if he'd just been stronger, been on lyrium, been more of the man he'd lost all those years ago to torture, that he could have thought of something, anything that would have saved more lives.

It ate at him.

Pushing away that little voice that over-analyzed everything—while it could be helpful during a fight, afterwards it rarely did more than twist his gut in knots that took hours or even days to loosen—he turned his gaze toward the war table.

Cassandra had suggested he get some rest, but he had no desire to greet the dreams that waited for him, especially when there were so many demons in this area. Even if they'd vanquished the ones in the real world, there was no telling what might be lurking in the Fade, bored enough to play with anyone's memories and nightmares, magic or no.

They would need to send the majority of their forces back to Skyhold as soon as they were able. While part of him wanted to let them rest for a few days, they couldn't afford to keep the majority of their forces out in the middle of nowhere now that the demon army was no longer a threat.

After all, even if Skyhold was rather easily defensible, the yawning stretch of camps in the valley were not so much so. Worse, many of those still there were civilians who had journeyed to join the Inquisition, assisting as chefs and pages, messengers and maids. They weren't soldiers, and it wouldn't do to leave them unguarded for so long.

As Cullen's eyes roamed the table with its little markers for different brigades and the like scattered around Adamant, his mind idly trying to determine who he should assign to stay back and tend to the injured as he started to send the rest of them home, the tent flap flipped open.

The inquisitor breezed into the room, face barely illuminated by the candles burning on the table in front of Cullen.

With a quick appraisal, their mouth quirked into a grin. "I thought you'd be up."

Cullen offered a dry laugh as they moved to take a seat next to him, setting two mugs on the table on top of the map and pouring a rather generous helping of ale into each. Cullen reached out and took the mug meant for him, inspecting the amber liquid idly before arching a brow. "I hope you don't have much of a head start. I hear Leliana wants you on the road back to Skyhold before the sun's up."

"Leliana can want whatever she damned well pleases," the inquisitor retorted, taking a long gulp from their drink. When they'd downed half the contents, they glanced him over and nodded their chin at him. "You gonna leave me to this by myself?"

Cullen took a sip and then shrugged. "Is there anything we're drinking to?"

The inquisitor seemed to consider it a long, quiet moment before holding out their mug and simply saying, "Fuck demons."

That was something he could drink to.

With a more genuine laugh, Cullen clinked his mug against theirs and took a long swig of his. It wasn't as bad as that swill the Iron Bull had tried to get him to down at the Herald's Rest, at least. As he settled more comfortably into his seat, he let himself get swept into conversation of the things to come, allowing himself at least a brief reprieve from the burdens that hung like chains around his shoulders.

The inquisitor held up their mug again for another toast, and Cullen clinked their drinks together, feeling a grin stretch his lips as he echoed the inquisitor's earlier sentiments. "Fuck demons."


End file.
